Just Not Tonight

There she sits, a country entirely on her own.

A voice inside whispers: Go ask for her phone.

But the old walls rise up,

heavy and tight—

No, I can’t do it. Just not tonight.

She is too sweet for the scars that I wear,

Too bright for the shadow I bring to the chair.

She must be waiting for someone, I think—

So back to the borders I quietly shrink.

I turn from the table, I step from the floor,

Leaving tomorrow to guard the front door.

But days turn to months, and the months into years,

Until loneliness hardens and swallows the fears.

And the old ceiling questions circle the dark:

How does a stone ever find a bright spark?

For I cannot see through the ghost of my history, Why anyone like her would want someone like me?